wednesday night jazz

The sounds of jazz are loud here,
Like the clanging of pots and pans
While father is playing the piano
And mother is a younger, darker haired
Version of herself, singing smoothly
About I can’t give you anything but love.
The living room walls are red and the
Trumpets sound now with a familiar tune
Sleeping children could recognize.

Smoking is the requisite for all of these
Things, contemplating the changing
Of seasons, how the ivy near the window
Has been complaining lately, of snow.
How my skin seems more creased when
I look in the mirror, my teeth bearing their
Age like a crest. The changing of seasons
Is such a wretched time, beautiful and full
Of agony all at once. Smooth voices soothe.